


Roots Ever Green

by erunamiryene



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Sith Era - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Long-Distance Relationship, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10393968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erunamiryene/pseuds/erunamiryene
Summary: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.~George Peele, PolyhymniaSeven years ago, Lord Riatisha, veteran of the Great Galactic War and diplomat from the Chiss Ascendancy, departed the Empire, bound for the Republic.  She has spent the intervening years on Tython, demonstrating her loyalty and her willingness to learn, and she has finally been made a knight of the Jedi Order.  What will happen when her past and her present collide?





	1. Esseles (1337 Imperial)

Jedi Knight Kri’riati’shai (“just Riatisha, please”) knows that she’s a bundle of oddities wrapped up in a dreadfully plain Jedi robe, is reminded of that fact every time she passes through a crowded area. 

Older than most knights - than some masters, too - and it shows in the inevitable look of surprise when she introduces herself with her newly acquired rank. She doesn’t look “old,” of course, and if she did no one would mention it, but knights are young, fresh-faced, bright-eyed. She is 51, no stranger to the vagaries of life, no cloistered former youngling who knows little outside of Tython.

She is also Chiss, and while aliens are viewed with less suspicion in the Republic than they are in the Empire - to a point - the Chiss are known for being Imperial allies, and precious few of them are seen outside Imperial space. Her deep blue skin and crimson eyes garner no small amount of curious glances, many lingering beyond politeness, many tilting into suspicion.

She’s used to it, of course; she’s also an Imperial defector. She caught a freighter out of Nar Shaddaa seven years ago and presented herself on Coruscant, a runaway Sith escaping a cruel, vicious master. It’s the sort of story the Republic expects to hear, the sort they consider a coup in their never-ending war against the Empire and the Sith. Though the Council already knew she was gifted in the Force, they kept her on Tython, under close watch and near-continual scrutiny, for the last seven years. A mere four weeks ago, the Council had informed her that they had finally classified her as sufficiently loyal to become a knight, after she’d ended a threat from nearby Kalikori Village and discovered a long-lost Jedi artifact.

During that ceremony, however, her latest master had fallen ill and been sent to Coruscant for treatment. Riatisha had been sent after her and then sent running all over Coruscant, consulting archival Jedi knowledge for the solution to what had befallen Master Par. No sooner had she done that, she was informed that _other_ Masters were falling ill, directed by the Council to go Taris and Nar Shaddaa in order to perform the same rite again.

“Master Jedi?”

Riatisha starts, then smiles sheepishly at the agent standing behind the counter. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought there for a moment. Yes, I’d like to book the last berthing on the _Esseles_ , please. The longer journey will give me a chance to rest and recuperate before I reach Taris and begin my work.”

The Duros nods and smiles, tapping on his console. “And … you’re booked, Master Jedi. Boarding is through this door to my left. Have a good flight.”

*

Grand Moff Rycus Kilran’s flagship was originally slated to be named the _Emperor’s Glory_. One of the few superficial things he’s pushed for in his nearly 30 year career in the Navy was to have it christened the _Arcturus_ after the ship he helmed at the battle of Ord Ibanna, decommissioned once engineers back on Dromund Kaas had assessed the damage. The Minister of War had granted this request, seeing it as inconsequential, a view Kilran was more than happy to leave uncorrected.

Her bridge is humming with sound as it always is, and he’s skimming the morning reports when his executive officer, Admiral Zakau, approaches; she clears her throat and he looks up. “What is it, Zakau?”

“Another message from the Esseles. Says they’ve taken on a new passenger.”

His plant on the _Esseles_ , a junior flight officer more than happy to take Imperial credits to pay off Republic debts, had sent a message earlier this morning about one Republic ambassador who’d been stirring up trouble on border worlds within the Empire. Kilran had read the report and set it aside; a single ambassador is hardly worthy quarry for him, or for his crew. “I do hope he included more information than that. If he’s going to send me line-by-line manifest updates, we’ll cut him loose with an anonymous tip to his captain.”

“Yes, sir. It’s a Jedi.” Admiral Zakau holds out a datapad. “The manifest information.”

Kilran takes it, skims it, and hands it back, no sign of what he’s thinking on his face. “We will intercept the _Esseles_ as it drops out of hyperspace. Have boarding parties prepared.” A pause. “Droids, for the most part. Lieutenant Isric can lead the cleanup crew, but I want the bulk of the fighting to be handled by droids. Ambassador Asara is our target, and unless I miss my mark, the Jedi will come to her aid, as well as the ship’s. Cause a large enough diversion that the _Esseles_ is thrown into panic, not so large that it’s crippled beyond repair. Just enough to warrant the Jedi’s involvement.”

Zakau gives him a quizzical look, but doesn’t voice whatever she’s thinking. “Yes, sir. I’ll get the plan drawn up and disseminated.” She holds out her hand. “Shall I take the datapad?”

“I’ll keep it for now.”

She inclines her head and departs, leaving Kilran deep in thought.

*

Riatisha staggers as the _Esseles_ is battered by fire from an incoming vessel, narrowly avoiding collision with a console before she finds her footing. She reaches the bridge, and the shouting first officer, as the Imperial ship pulls into view, filling the transparisteel in front of her. The first officer jumps up to confront her, but his angry tirade is muted, distant as she stares out at the massive ship, her hands clenching and unclenching. 

It registers that he’s stopped yelling at her, and she wrenches her attention back to the slight man in front of her. “Are you going to let them take your ship? Fight them off!”

“Fight them off!” First Officer Haken rakes a hand through already disheveled hair, giving her a look of utter disbelief. “That’s one of the largest ships in the Imperial fleet!”

“Sir.”

Haken glares at the sergeant who’d spoken. “What?”

“The Imperial ship … they’re hailing us.”

“What?” Haken shakes his head, seeming to deflate. “Oh. Well, put them through, I guess.”

Next to him, the bridge holocom flickers to life, displaying a broad-shouldered man in an immaculately pressed set of Imperial camouflage. He looks to be in quite good humor as he regards first Haken, then Riatisha. “Republic transport _Esseles_ , this is Grand Moff Rycus Kilran. Your defenses are entirely disabled, and you can attempt no resistance.”

Riatisha remains carefully neutral only through sheer force of will, her heart hammering wildly in her chest, a stark comparison to the clearly agitated Haken. When the first officer doesn’t speak, she steps forward. “We’re aware of our situation, Kilran,” she says, deliberately inflectionless. “Tell us why you’re here.”

“Your ship is transporting a known anti-Imperial terrorist and seditionist, the so-called Ambassador Vyn Asara.” He falls silent for a moment, scrutinizing the Jedi. “I’ve come to collect her.”

This time, before Riatisha can speak, Haken butts in. “Who? We didn’t take any passengers by that name. I’ve never even heard of this person!”

“Interesting. Lying, or incompetent? No matter. My agents aboard your ship have confirmed the ambassador is there.” Before Haken can voice his inevitable disbelief, Kilran holds up a hand. “I have eyes everywhere. My soldiers are preparing to board your ship through the primary airlock, and my agents will ensure that you do not interfere with them. If you attempt to stop my soldiers from arresting Ambassador Asara, I will have every living thing aboard the _Esseles_ killed.” With this last, he disconnects.

Riatisha shakes her head. “If we just hand this ambassador over, we can all be on our way. I’ll escort her myself.”

“It won’t matter!” Haken’s voice is skewing close to panic. “The only one he wants alive is the ambassador. If he gets her while we’re sitting in his sights, we’re all goners!”

Riatisha closes her eyes, inhales slowly, and opens her eyes. “I’ll take care of the soldiers.”

*

She ends up taking care of the soldiers, the droids, _and_ making sure that Asara doesn’t murder the engineering crew, before Asara blithely informs her and Haken that they’ll have sneak aboard Kilran’s ship in order to disable the tractor beam. This would be enough, but then Haken suggests Asara come along. Riatisha protests but is overridden, which is how she finds herself trying not to glare at the smaller woman as they debark the shuttle.

“I’m going to take care of this. Just … stay here and stay out of trouble.”

Wave after wave of droids fall before her. and she wonders if she’s going to see any actual soldiers before rounding a corner and running right into a group of five of them. One, a grizzled chief petty officer who looks like he should have retired twenty years ago, opens his mouth, but doesn’t have a chance to say anything before she renders him unconscious. The rest of the group meet the same fate in short order, and she makes her way up a ramp to the control center. She’s just closed out what she’s doing on the console when the holocom behind her activates.

“I’ve seen some incredible things in my time,” Kilran says, the barest hint of a smile on his face, “but you’ve just topped the list.”

“Just?” Riatisha asks, affronted.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t greet you in person,” he continues, affable. “If only you’d let me know you were stopping by.”

Riatisha offers an apologetic shrug. He certainly is charming for someone who’s ostensibly trying to kill her. “If this is a bad time, I could come back later.”

“Not at all. I assure you, I’m quite prepared for your visit,” he says, as calmly as though he’d been expecting her for tea. “Soldiers will be along shortly to escort you to the accommodations I’ve arranged.” 

This time, she can’t help her smile, even though she knows she should be serious. “I guess this is where the fun begins.”

“Ironfist wasn’t the only weapon in my arsenal, nor the deadliest.” The Mandalorian and his band had fallen easily under Riatisha’s onslaught; Kilran had been quite disappointed in their performance, even though he hadn’t really expected them to stop her. “See you soon.”

The hologram winks out and Riatisha takes a deep breath, lacing her fingers together to still her shaking hands. Small measure of equilibrium achieved, she presses onward.

*

It’s with something coming close to disappointment that Riatisha finds herself back in front of the hangar, all of Kilran’s efforts to stop her come to naught. She drops the force field and steps through the doorway, only to find herself face to face with some Sith apprentice who couldn’t be more than 20, 25 at best. He snarls some incoherence at her about death and pain, and all she can manage is a sigh.

“Kid, I’ve forgotten more about all of this than you’ve ever been taught.”

The Sith’s face twists in a snarl. “You? A Jedi?” He spits at her feet. “Prepare to die!”

He’s expecting her to fight like a Jedi: fight to disable, fight to restrain. But she’s only been a Jedi for seven years, and she was a Sith for more than four times that. Step by step, her ferocity drives him back into the corner, then down to one knee, and then onto the floor, never to rise again.

She still has one bit of unfinished business.

“You’re staying behind, Ambassador. It’s for the best.” Riatisha’s grows colder, a match for her impassive expression, as she stares down the Twi’lek on the floor. “Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”

Asara’s eyes grow wide and she scrambles to her feet. “You can’t!”

“She can,” a mellifluous Kaas-accented voice interjects from behind the two women. “And she just did.”

Asara whirls, taking a stumbling step back from where Grand Moff Kilran, flanked by two soldiers, is striding toward them. “No! Why all of this for one ambassador? Even by your standards this makes no sense!”

He ignores this outburst. “Seize the ambassador. Deposit her in a cell until we reach Dromund Kaas. I will handle the Jedi.”

“Yes, sir.” The two soldiers effortlessly wrestle the slim Twi’lek into custody, each of them on a side, hands clamped around her biceps. Their footsteps - and Asara’s protestations - recede, finally cut off when the lift doors close behind them. Kilran studies the Jedi in front of him, from her carefully bound near-black hair to her bland robes, the white brilliant against her deep blue skin, to the tips of her boots, poking out from the edge of her skirt. “Quite the display of martial ability you’ve demonstrated on your rampage through my ship,” he says, not sounding at all displeased. “You’re wasted in the Republic.”

“Why some random ambassador?” Riatisha asks, arms folded beneath her breasts. “She was a terrible diplomat, couldn’t possibly have been causing that much damage to the Empire. She can’t have been worth all this trouble.”

He nods. “You’re correct; _she_ isn’t. I wouldn’t have bothered at all but for a notification of a last minute addition to the passenger manifest. How fortunate for me that your transport ship was making a multi-leg journey and I was nearby.” He holds out a hand, his expression softening. “Your letters were far too infrequent while you were on Tython.”

Seven years ago, the Council approached his wife about a long-term undercover mission in Republic space: defect, earn their trust, and destabilize the Republic in a thousand small ways. They’d discussed it, of course, but it was a foregone conclusion; their duty to the Empire will always come first. In those last seven years, communication has been sporadic at best, with neither of them sure when - or if - they'd see the other again. 

“I was a defector, albeit a poor, downtrodden one,” she says, flat Republic accent replaced by her true one. Before she’d left, she’d suggested they give the appearance of her running from an abusive master, standing there silently taking the hits he’d doled out. She’d reported in her first letter how well that ruse had worked. “Naturally, they had to keep a very close eye on me. But now I'm a knight.” She places her hand in his and smiles, inhaling deeply when he pulls her against him. “You haven't found a new soap in seven years?”

He makes a non-committal sound, his fingertips brushing her earlobe when he cups her face. “I’m a hopelessly sentimental man in some regards, and the scent reminds me of you,” he murmurs, his mouth hardly more than a breath away from hers. “I've missed you, Tish.”

It takes no effort at all for Riatisha to close the meager distance. “I've missed you too, Rycus.” A muffled sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob escapes her as her grip tightens on his immaculately pressed uniform. “And I already have to leave.” The words come out in a jumble, hurried out of the way so she can kiss him, eager and needy, finesse abandoned in favor of drinking him in. She plucks at the top button of his black and gray camouflage jacket, skims the palm of her hand along his torso before deftly unfastening his belt. “I can’t tarry long.”

“You wound me. You must know I’ve accounted for this.” He kisses her again, already knowing that no matter how many times he does so before she leaves, it won't be enough. Her skin is warm, so warm, and he briefly wonders how he's survived these seven years without her. “As soon as we get back to my quarters, I will contact the _Esseles_ and inform them that I have taken you in return for their release. They will feel very badly about it, I'm sure, but you will be left behind. The greater good, and all that.” He kisses her cheek, her jawline, her neck, drawing the tender skin between his teeth until she hisses a quick breath, sharp and sibilant. “And then you can come home with me.”

“I can't. I have to wait for the extraction notification from the Council.” Her crimson eyes are sorrowful. “If I could, I would.” She slips one hand into his trousers and wraps it around his cock, smiling when he groans. “Rycus, please don't make me wait. I'll be very cross if you do.”

Removing her hand might be one of the most difficult things he’s had to do in some time. Tish deserves better than rushed fumbling, deserves more time and more attention than either of them can spare down here. “Come on.”

He pulls her into the hangar control room and opens one of the lockers on the back wall, not noticing as she slips her robes from her shoulders and lays them on the small table. “I believe Lieutenant Hotia’s about your size; she has a spare uniform in …." He trails off, looking through the locker. "Here it is.” He turns. “You can -” 

Tish offers him a lopsided smile. “You were saying?”

Rycus discards the uniform on a chair then lifts her up onto the table, his hands immediately caressing familiar bared skin. The fading scar over her right eye, _my second favorite souvenir from Ord Ibanna_ , she always says. Freckles that dust her cheeks, her chest, her shoulders, her back. Pale blue lines on her stomach, hips, thighs, all mementos from her pregnancy with Rahmal. She was at his side for 17 years; these last seven, with their sporadic communication, have been more of a trial than he expected. “Tish, I don’t want - we can’t -” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Not down here,” he finally says, though he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

Tish wraps her ankles around the back of his legs and pulls him closer, making short work of his jacket, sliding her hands under the hem of his undershirt to caress taut skin and hard muscle. He's got more silver in his hair than she remembered, a few more wrinkles on his face, but every inch of him is familiar and loved and _home_. The sudden, desperate yearning for her own house and her own bed and her own life hits her like a ton of duracrete, and she can't stop the tear that slips out of the corner of her eye. 

Rycus swipes it away with the pad of his thumb, tilting her chin up toward him. “Tish?” When she shakes her head, unable to speak past the emotions caught in her throat, he bends and kisses her, slow and sweet. “I'm going to petition the Council. It's been long enough.”

“Rycus, no.” She cups his face, pressing her forehead to his. “Believe me, I want to. But what if I what I do is a turning point? What if I find something invaluable to the Empire’s plans? I’m not going to be the one to use my husband’s influence to run to the Council and beg to come home.” She pulls back, pastes on an attempt at a smile. “Besides, now that I’m off Tython, I’ll have more freedom. You know how much you like surprise inspections; no one needs to know you’re surprise inspecting because a completely random Jedi happens to be on-world at the same time.”

He runs one hand along her bare leg. “If you’re sure. But I’ve missed you, and you sitting here naked is incredibly distracting. Why don’t we go to my quarters? I’ll rid myself of this troublesome Republic vessel, and then you and I can have dinner before availing ourselves of … other, more pleasurable activities.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Esseles_ as it is in game makes no sense, because how did the largest ship in the Imperial fleet get in between the Republic fleet and Coruscant? So I've tweaked it; now it's a transport between Coruscant and Taris. At the time of Pubs going to Taris, it's still Republic territory, but right on the border of Imperial space, thus Kilran being able to come after Asara makes a weeeee bit more sense.


	2. Arcturus (1312 Imperial)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Kri’riati’shai requested a transfer from the Diplomatic Corps and the Chiss embassy to an active post within the Imperial military, wanting to do her part for the war effort. Newly assigned to the _Arcturus_ as the Sith liaison to the tactical operations office, she makes her way through the massive ship, seeking out the recently appointed tactical advisor, Commander Rycus Kilran.

“Armas is getting his ass chewed by a Sith,” Flight Sergeant Uckar chortles to the group of NCOs. “Some people have a betting pool on whether he lives. You guys want in?”

Commander Rycus Kilran, tactical advisor to Darth Orimos, pauses as he passes the small group. “Who is?”

Uckar snaps to attention, as does the rest of the group. “Sir! Um, Chief Technician Armas is, sir. At least, that’s the rumor. Story goes, he muttered something under his breath and the Sith, some new addition to Darth Orimos’ office, heard him. They’re still by the operations office, last we heard.”

Armas, Kilran’s clerk for the last five months, never does know when to shut his mouth, never can seem to stop spouting off about how much he hates aliens. Kilran had thought he’d know better than to give lip to a Sith, though, especially after Armas’ last fitness report. His stare turns hard, though his pleasant tone doesn’t shift. “Quit standing around gossiping and get back to work.”

“Yes, sir!” The group dissipates almost instantaneously, exhibiting the sort of alacrity possessed solely by military members attempting to avoid trouble, an officer, or a working party (and very often, all three at once). As he walks toward the lift, he almost admires the speed with which they scatter.

He steps off the lift and pauses, but he doesn’t hear any shouting, and a small knot of concern wedges itself in his chest. If Armas got himself killed, Kilran is either going to have to wait for another clerk or pull one from a different shop, neither of which are ideal options with upcoming campaigns; he detests the wheeling and dealing that seems to be necessary to get anything done in the military, and if he’s got to go through that for another clerk, he’s going to be very put out.

The long hallway in front of his office is deserted except for Armas and a Chiss woman Kilran hasn’t seen before. Armas is pallid even from this distance, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, standing rigidly at attention and staring at a point somewhere past the Chiss’s head. 

On first glance, the Chiss is dressed in what appears to be a _varcah_ , the traditional dress worn by Chiss women, but on closer inspection he can see that the short jacket topping the high-waisted full skirt is actually armor, a lightsaber hangs high on her left side, and the entire outfit is an impressive marriage of functionality and aesthetic.

She’s …? Should he rescue his clerk? He ponders for a moment as he leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest. 

No, he doesn't think he will. Armas has undoubtedly brought this on himself, and he’s curious to see what happens next … but he’s also curious about this Sith. She certainly has more restraint than most of Orimos’ other Sith that prowl around the ship, or Armas would likely already be unconscious.

“Let’s see, Chief Technician. I’ve asked you to repeat what you said, this time to my face. You didn’t because you’re a coward, not that I expected any less. Tell me, who is your OIC? I find myself possessed of a sudden need to speak to them.” She folds her arms, staring at Armas, who shrinks back toward the wall.

“He … it’s ….”

“Spit it out!” 

“Commander Kilran, my lord! It’s Commander Kilran!” 

“Kilran.” The Chiss taps her chin. “I need to speak with him anyway; we will wait here until he shows up. I’m sure he’d like to hear that his bantha shit NCO doesn't know how to respect Sith.”

That sounds like his cue. He straightens, then strides down the hallway. “My lord, is there a problem?”

“You’re damn right there is,” she says, Armas all but forgotten as she rounds on Kilran, eyes flashing. “He’s yours. He has paid me grave disrespect. I wish to know what you are going to do about it.”

What _he’s_ going to do about it? She’s certainly unorthodox for a Sith. “My lord, as you are the injured party, the right of punishment falls to you.”

“I’m aware of the chain of command, Commander.”

He inclines his head. “Armas, what did you say to Lord …?” He directs an inquiring look at the Chiss.

“Lord Kri’riati’shai,” she replies, her name a melody. A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, there and gone so quickly he’s not sure he didn’t imagine it. “Lord Riatisha will suffice.”

He turns back to Armas, making a mental note to learn to pronounce her name properly. “What did you say to Lord Riatisha?”

Armas, defiant, tries to hold Kilran’s gaze but can’t, dropping his eyes to his boots. It looks like he’ll be finding himself another clerk after all. “Get in my office, Chief Technician. Lord Riatisha, if you have time to give a statement, I’ll process the charge sheet.”

“I don’t, but for this I will make the time.” She pulls out a small datapad, dashes off a short message, and restores it to her pocket. “On your lead, Commander.”

They all file into Kilran’s office; he seats himself behind the large desk and pulls up a form. After a long, silent moment, he looks at Armas. “Are you giving me a statement in your defense, Armas?” When Armas’ jaw tightens and it’s clear he’s not going to say anything, Kilran sighs and looks at Riatisha. “Your statement, my lord? I’ll need as much detail as you can provide.”

“I was on my way to your office; Darth Orimos directed me to come speak with you, as you are his new tactical advisor and our duties will be dovetailing quite often. As I passed your clerk here, he made the monumentally stupid decision to mutter something before I was out of earshot. To his somewhat dubious credit, he did use Huttese, but joke’s on him, I speak it.” Her mouth twists in distaste. “Colloquially translated, he expressed an interest in discovering if Chiss women are cold everywhere.” A pause. “If you take my meaning. If you do not, I will give you the full translation.”

Kilran holds up a hand. “Not necessary.” He stares at Armas until the man shrinks back. “Not only do you once again exhibit flagrant disregard for proper comportment, you do so to a Sith?”

“How was I supposed to know she was a Sith?” Armas snaps. “Don’t they hate aliens just as much as we do?”

The distance by which Armas is missing the point is almost impressive. “It wouldn’t have been acceptable even if she wasn’t a Sith!” Kilran looks back at the screen. “However, because she is, Naval Order 13.4H takes precedence over Article 15.” As Armas’ eyes go wide, Kilran stands. “Pirand Armas, for your flagrant disregard for sections 889 and 892 of the Imperial Military Code of Justice, you are hereby reduced in rank to Corporal. You are removed from this billet. You are confined to quarters, barring meals and a twice-daily accountability check-in with me, for the next sixty days. If a billet cannot be found for you aboard the _Arcturus_ at your new rank, and rest assured I will do everything in my power to ensure no such billet is found, you will be transferred back to the home guard until an availability for your occupational specialty is found.” He sits back down. “Get the fuck out of my office, Armas.”

*

“Ri, you’ve been talking about this human for twenty minutes.” Muali, Riatisha’s closest friend in the Chiss embassy back in Kaas City, doesn’t bother to hide her smirk. “Aside from being human, he’s not even Force-sensitive; isn’t that supposed to be a big deal for you Sith types?”

Riatisha pauses before she speaks. Has it been twenty minutes? It can’t possibly have been that long. All she did was tell Muali about what happened today and about the officer she’s going to be liaising with. “If it has been that long, and I’m skeptical of your timekeeping, it’s only because the story turned out more lengthy than I had anticipated.”

“Ah, yes.” Muali gives her a knowing look. “The color of his eyes was absolutely an essential detail for telling this story of military punishment, as was the lengthy description of how impressed you were with his bearing, and I believe you even mentioned something about some sort of nice-smelling soap? I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave those out.”

Riatisha scowls. “All right, fine. I’ll admit he wasn’t hard on the eyes. Are you satisfied?”

“Are you going to make a move?” Muali already knows what Riatisha’s going to say – something about duty and propriety and mission accomplishment – but all Muali has to do is plant the seed of the idea, and then be sure to mention it often enough that Riatisha doesn’t forget.

As anticipated, Riatisha shakes her head. “We’re going to be working together. This may have escaped your notice, but we’re in the middle of a war. This is hardly the time to be shirking duty for frivolous pursuits. Aside from all that, if it goes poorly it’s going to put a strain on our working relationship and we can’t have strains in unit cohesion, especially among leadership.”

“You’re so predictable, Ri. I could make a script and read along with it when I ask you things like this. It wouldn’t kill you to find out if he’s interested.”

Riatisha gives Muali a disapproving look, more irked by that comment than she’s willing to admit. She’s got to work twice as hard to get even a percentage of the respect she’s owed, and anything that takes away from that focus is unnecessary. Muali knows this, but still refuses to give up on her apparent goal of matching Riatisha up with someone. Riatisha briefly wonders if her father put Muali up to this, but decides she doesn’t really want to know. “Look, all I need him to be interested in is getting the job done. Everything else is distraction. I’ve got to go; meetings start early tomorrow.” She smiles; as obnoxious as Muali can be about this particular topic, there’s never any hard feelings. “Talk again soon?”

“Of course.” Muali grins. “Ask him out before then.”

Riatisha sighs. “You’re incorrigible.” She chuckles, then disconnects.

If things were different, she might be tempted. Commander Kilran is clearly competent, as evidenced by his handling of the incident today and the discrepancy between his rank and the expected rank for his billet. And he _is_ handsome, no matter how much she tried to downplay that while talking to Muali. On top of all that, he hadn’t looked at her like she was a curiosity in a zoo, a refreshing change from the last few posts she’s had. She’d have thought Imperials would be used to Chiss by now, but the open staring (and occasional outright hostility) she’s endured since leaving the Academy swiftly proved her wrong on that front.

Rolling off her bunk, Riatisha snatches her towel off the chair it’s draped over. Nothing’s going to happen, so there’s no point in sitting around mooning about it.

She can’t deny she feels a little twinge of disappointment, though.

*

There’s a quick tap on Commander Kilran’s door before it slides open, revealing his new clerk, Chief Technician Viara Bucmolind. “Sir, Lord Riatisha just commed to say she’s on her way.”

“Good. As usual, there’s no need to announce her unless she requires it; she can come directly into my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

His door closes again, and Kilran sits back in his chair, lost in thought as he stares unseeing at the map of the sector projected on his desk. 

He’s not in the habit of lying to himself, and these meetings with the Chiss woman have become one of the most pleasant parts of his daily routine. She’s incisive and quick-witted, and more than once he’s considered extending an offer of a friendly game of Asha in his quarters. He hasn't, because he has no wish to give the impression of impropriety … and because his interest isn’t entirely just friendly. She’s certainly on his mind more often than she should be, given that their only relationship is a professional one, and given how well they’ve gelled in the two and a half months since they met, he has no wish to endanger that professional relationship.

It hadn’t been so difficult when they were only meeting every three days, but then she’d started coming by more often, and soon they’d found themselves settling into a daily routine of morning meetings and mission planning. He’ll take any chance to see her, of course, even if it can’t ever be anything other than the one-sided schoolboy crush it is.

Ridiculous, he thinks, chuckling ruefully, being a twenty-six year old man with a _crush_.

A quick staccato on his door snaps him out of his thoughts, and he smiles when it slides open, revealing Riatisha. “Ah, my lord. Right on time. We have eight hours until our arrival and the latest reconnaissance at our disposal.”

Riatisha holds up two large cafs, then extends one to him. “I’ve come prepared. Let’s hammer out this battle plan and take it to Darth Orimos.”

*

A month later, it’s started to seem awkward that he _doesn’t_ really socialize with her outside of their meetings, and Rycus finally invites Riatisha to his quarters for a game of Asha, which she accepts.

Not for the first time this evening, Rycus laments how small the single berthing rooms are. Asha boards are quite large; two sides are up against the wall, and for him and Riatisha - Lord Riatisha - to play it, they’re going to have to very carefully maneuver around each other. The best he can hope for is that she doesn’t see it as some sort of juvenile gambit to get closer to her. Not that it was in actuality, but he can certainly see how it might be seen that way. 

Also not for the first time this evening, he catches a glimpse of himself in his mirror and wonders if he should change. They’d agreed on casual, which by necessity generally means PT gear, but what if she’d had something else in mind? He’s just opened his wall locker when there’s a knock on his door; sighing, he shuts the wall locker, scoots by the game table, and touches the entry pad.

Riatisha - Lord Riatisha, he reminds himself yet again - is standing there in a pair of surprisingly - and distractingly - fitted black sweatpants emblazoned with the Imperial logo and a Korriban Academy shirt with the sleeves cut off, her long near-black hair swept into a simple ponytail high on her head. He fumbles for words as his mouth goes dry. “I … ah … do come in, my lord.” 

“Thank you, Commander.” Riatisha watches him execute an about face that wouldn’t be out of place on a parade deck, her gaze drifting from casually mussed hair to broad shoulders, testing the stretch of his OCS class shirt, to trim waist to short black PT shorts and -- 

She scowls. _Focus! He didn’t invite you here for you to ogle him. Get it together._ Not that this stern internal lecture stops her from noticing what phenomenal legs he has.

She’s going to get her ass handed to her playing this game.

Riatisha looks around his room. “It doesn’t appear they wanted you officers to play Asha,” she observes, amused. 

“I certainly overestimated the size of my room,” he agrees. “I think we can make it work, though.”

Thirty minutes later, Riatisha is trying to slip past him to get to her pieces, and her hands, held out to prevent brushing anything else against him, skim his ass. He tenses on reflex, and Riatisha can feel her cheeks get hot even as she tries her level best not to just outright stare at him. She takes a slow, silent breath, willing the heat in her cheeks away before she moves out from behind him. “Sorry, Commander. I was trying to get through that gap there but I didn’t quite make it.”

Whatever he says in response, it certainly can’t be that he didn’t _mind_ her touching him. “We’re working with a small space; it’s to be expected, my lord.” There; that’s bland and inoffensive, completely neutral. He watches her decimate four of his units in short order. “Though perhaps it granted you luck, given that battle.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Are you suggesting that touching your ass gave me luck?”

“Well.” He gestures at the now-barren spot on the board where his cavalry had been. “It certainly seems that way, does it not?”

She considers this. “If that’s the case, shouldn’t you be winning by a wide margin, rather than that razor thin lead you have now? After all, your ass is touching _you_ all the time.”

This rejoinder, delivered perfectly straightfaced, shatters his bearing and he laughs outright. “Clearly, I need to stop going easy on you, my lord.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Commander.” She proceeds to wrest four territories from him, distracted as he is by her smile and her talent for the game, all the while asking precisely when he’s going to stop taking it easy on her.

He wrenches his focus away from her and back to the game, and the next three hours proceed like any game of Asha, except for the nigh-unbearable tension that resurfaces every time they have to shuffle around each other. The last time he remembers being this tightly wound around anyone was before he’d even joined the military, and despite his best efforts it’s taken a deleterious toll on his game. 

The only consolation is that she appears to be having the same problem.

He’s squeezing by her yet again, and he moves her forward half a step without thinking, hands wrapping around her shoulders, immediately raising them when he hears her quiet gasp. “Apologies. That was untoward of me.”

Instead of brushing it off as she usually does, as they’ve both been doing all night, she pivots, drawing a breath through parted lips as she eyes him from far too close. “Commander ….”

She trails off, and when she doesn’t continue he raises an eyebrow. “My lord?” 

Riatisha pulls her lower lip between her teeth, her breathing shallow. “I do hope you won't think less of me. I know this is dreadfully unprofessional.” Before he can ask what she's referring to, she leans forward and kisses him, hands settling on his waist, her sigh of pleasure muffled against his mouth. When they separate, her step back bumps the Asha board, sending pieces too close to the edge falling to the floor; she gives him a frank look. “If this has a detrimental effect on our working relationship, I understand, and I will acquiesce to however you wish to alter our association. I should have -”

Rycus steps close again, watching for any indication he should stop as he reaches up to cup her face. When there is none, he leans in, pausing just before his lips touch hers. “My lord, I won't think less of you for your unprofessional behavior if you won't think less of me for mine.”

“An equitable arrangement, Commander.”


End file.
